


Ann-thannath

by cherryblossombomb



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossombomb/pseuds/cherryblossombomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is wounded when he protects Thorin from Azog.</p><p>Fill for this prompt on the kink meme: I basically imagine a story in which Bilbo is injured during the fight with the Orc. Maybe he has a wound he doesn't notice because of the adrenalin rush or the Orc scratches him with his sword which is poisend... that is up to anon.</p><p>I would like to have him collapse into Thorins arm during the hug ( I know a total cliche^^) Thorin gets all worried and maybe feels all guilty because he headed head first into the fight without any consideration for his comrades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ann-thannath

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T due to description of a wound. I was thinking of Bleach while I described it too, when Renji dragged his zanpakutou through Ichigo's shoulder. But I didn't include blood explosions here.
> 
> Sorry if this is quite short. ;o; Only 2,980 characters total, wah. But I really liked the prompt since I have a thing for characters getting hurt followed by hurt/comfort, ehehe.
> 
> This is my first fic for The Hobbit, so I hope the characterisations are all right! Azog's not a prominent figure in the book so I couldn't reference that for lines, but I hope the fight scene was all right.
> 
> I hope to write more fics for The Hobbit soon, and I hope you liked this one! ♥
> 
> P.S. Ann-thannath means The Gift of Words in Sindarin because in this story Thorin's not terribly emotionally constipated.

Orange was the fire that lapped at the trees that shielded them from their enemies, and grey was the smoke that wafted towards them with the ferocious wind that served only to spread the fire and jostle the company clinging desperately to creaking branches. But blood red was the fury with which Thorin Oakenshield clutched the Orcrist in a white-knuckled grip, stood like a king filled with resentment and pride, and charged towards Azog like a man who had lost everything – at the orc’s hands.

Bilbo felt his heart falter in his chest when Thorin dashed towards Azog, seemingly uncaring of his own wellbeing, before it again began hammering in his chest like one of those Rhosgobel rabbits. Fumbling for Sting, he yanked himself up with all his strength, and propelled himself through the burning fire that bit hungrily at his legs.

His eyes widened as Thorin collapsed backwards, colliding painfully with the solid earth, wielding only a piece of wood as a shield – just like years before. Only this time, Azog appeared to have the advantage.

While Bilbo had negative thoughts that were alarmingly frequent for a social creature like a hobbit, he had never wished such grievous harm on anyone – until this very moment.

Brandishing Sting in his quivering but determined grip, he darted to Thorin, hoping desperately that his shaking wasn’t outwardly obvious. With his blood rushing through his ears, his heart beating wildly as if it would break through his ribcage, and thoughts melding together, he could barely hear the orcs’ domineering, harsh voices.

 _Is Thorin okay? No, no, obviously not, but he is surely alive, at least, of course._ But oh, by all that is sacred, he hoped desperately that nobody had fallen from the precarious tree that hung over the massive drop, wondered if Gandalf could do anything for them now, entertained the thought of Thorin accepting him if he were to actually _defend_ him—

An orc lurched towards him and blind terror and adrenaline surged through Bilbo, and he shoved his sword forward, feeling disturbed by the sound of flesh separated by a blade and the thought of having killed two living creatures this night. The only living thing he’d ever harmed before was himself as a boy, wandering about the bushes and scraping his skin on thorns, slipping into creeks and spraining his ankle, or falling off a branch and twisting his wrist. Today, he’d fought a goblin, unsheathed Sting against that strange creature within the caves, and killed a warg and an orc.

The orc fell before him – before the feet of Azog, and Bilbo tore his sword back and stumbled. Azog’s disconcertingly light eyes narrowed on Bilbo, a snarl on his vile, scarred lips. While Bilbo knew he had no chance against such a monster, he wasn’t about to up and leave Thorin for dead. The man had proven to be quite malicious, and his words were hurtful, but Bilbo could admit that he was not like the dwarves; he did miss his homely comforts, and he’d never be a swordsman. But he wasn’t disloyal and, while scared, he was not so much a coward that he’d run away at a time like this.

He swung his sword at Azog, sparing a glance at the warg, which was foaming at the mouth. He swallowed thickly, eyes wide and heart in his throat. Why had he been the one to get out of the tree first? He couldn’t defend Thorin – he could barely defend himself!

Azog spoke, voice hoarse and harsh, and Bilbo felt spittle slap against his face. He snarled something out again, all stained teeth and bloodlust-filled eyes.

“Stay back!” shouted Bilbo, voice almost shrill as his sword shuddered in his trembling grasp.

Azog’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits and Bilbo then thought that no, your life didn’t flash before your eyes at all before you died; all he could see was a vengeful, malignant orc above a carnivorous beast. Yet he, a hobbit, was all that stood before them and Thorin. If all he was good for was stalling, then he would stall indeed, until someone could actually be of use to Thorin.

“Azubuk,” spat Azog, leaning back in astonished fury when Bilbo narrowed his eyes and swung his sword, slicing at the warg.

Roaring in fury, Azog reeled back before charging forward. Bilbo’s eyes widened and he lifted his sword, but while he swung everywhere as quickly as he could, Azog’s prosthetic scimitar sliced deeply into Bilbo’s shoulder, embedding and sticking there. He choked on his breath as the metal forced itself deeper into the incision, tearing at flesh and muscle, and then was yanked forcefully back out. His knees buckled and he collapsed, heaving on the ground, shoulder throbbing so intensely that his vision was almost shrouded.

But – but Thorin… was still unconscious and vulnerable. Bilbo couldn’t fight Azog, and couldn’t even defend himself, but… he could shield Thorin. He tried to stand, legs shaking like trees in a hurricane, and fell beside Thorin, Sting slipping through his hands, now covered in wet blood. He breathed heavily, leaning over Thorin, clenching his nails into the ground to force himself to remain upright.

Azog howled again, and Bilbo scrabbled for his blade, grabbing for it weakly and lifting it to block Azog’s blade – but it wasn’t his arm this time.

It was his mace.

The huge ball smashed into his chest, the spikes cutting through his thin clothes and piercing his skin. He thought he gasped, but he couldn’t even do that much, and could make only a choked noise before nearly falling onto Thorin. He caught himself at the last minute with his good arm, heaving and shaking. He steeled himself for the next blow, still grasping Sting, but jumped in surprise and jerked his head up when he heard numerous loud cries of wrath and heavy footsteps.

The dwarves had made it out of the tree and Thorin – Thorin might be all right. He glanced down, a brief moment of hope overwhelming him, but Thorin’s eyes remained obstinately shut. He wondered worriedly for a moment what to do, before the shrill screech of a bird interrupted his panicked thoughts. Horror flooded him as the huge creatures approached and he stubbornly remained beside Thorin, all the while muttering “no, no, no, no,” before he was swept up in its clawed feet and dropped off of the cliff.

He hadn’t even had time to shout, for a moment later he fell atop another’s back. His wounds were jostled and throbbed terribly, stinging and burning and aching excruciatingly. He reeled for a moment, dizzy and disorientated, before looking up to see Thorin being carried by another, and all the dwarves falling onto the backs of more. They called out for Thorin, panicked and anxious, but could do nothing until they landed.

The eagle deposited Thorin gently, and Gandalf rushed to his side. Bilbo landed moments after and approached cautiously, unsure if he’d be wanted since he couldn’t do very much. He tried to mask his limp, not wanting to appear to be even more of a hindrance. He tried to focus on breathing to steady his reeling head, tried to squint through his spiralling eyesight, but his concerns were fixated upon Thorin for the time being.

Everyone deflated in relief when his eyes fluttered open, and he grimaced painfully but waved away any attempts to assist him, the proud, stubborn arse. Bilbo offered a smile when Thorin glanced at him, honestly calmed and pleased that Thorin wasn’t too grievously harmed.

“Did I not say you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild?” said Thorin, voice rebounding around the mountains. Bilbo’s heart sunk and the smile fell from his face, and suddenly his wounds seemed to ache even more. He had tried not to be, had tried all he could think of to avoid being a burden, but… “That you have no place amongst us?” he snapped, which hurt even more.

The other dwarves were restless, worried about both Thorin’s injuries and Bilbo’s devastated look, but they dared not speak when Thorin was staring to intently at Bilbo. Gandalf’s disapproval and curiosity rolled off of him in waves that almost looked like the shadows he’d conjured when they were at The Shire, but he did not step forward to intervene either.

The silence stretched on for a tense, desperate moment, and then Thorin stepped forward and said, “I have never been so wrong in all my life.”

Bilbo tensed in Thorin’s arms, face pressed against the soft fur across his shoulders, and while his wounds pained him fiercely, Thorin’s acceptance made a smile tug at his lips, unbidden yet unrestrained. He closed his eyes, emitting the softest of chuckles, and leaned against him.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Thorin said, and meaning it. He remembered all the words he’d spoken to the hobbit – so few in number and none of them kind. And yet… Bilbo had returned to them, and then defended Thorin after receiving even more of his harsh words.

When he did not receive a reply, he grew concerned that his apology had not been accepted. He pulled away slightly to look at Bilbo, but the hobbit’s knees collapsed beneath him and his body fell limp. Thorin instinctively caught him, holding him against him, before his gaze zeroed in on Bilbo’s collar where blood had seeped through the fabric.

“Gandalf!” he called furiously, lowering Bilbo to the ground, careful not to jostle him and cause more pain.

Gandalf was knelt across from him in an instant, deftly lifting away Bilbo’s first layer of clothing, the dark red blazer that had masked the fresh blood. Against the green waistcoat – which, for some reason, was missing its buttons – the excessive blood was a stark contrast.

He could hear the rest of the dwarves shouting behind him, heard Kili approach, but trusted Fili and the others enough to keep him back. “He needs room,” said Balin, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thorin and Gandalf will see to him,” Fili assured his brother.

“What happened?” demanded Thorin, although he could hazard a guess himself…

Gandalf looked at him, stern, concerned, but sympathetic eyes meeting his own. “Azog the Defiler. Bilbo protected you with all of his strength,” he said bluntly. “Put up a fight, of course, but… well.” He placed his hand above Bilbo’s shoulder. Gandalf’s hand was trembling, but with what, Thorin did not know. “We must return to Rivendell,” he said.

Thorin, however, was still reluctant.

Gandalf’s eyes were steely and his glare dark. “Bilbo’s wounds are serious, Thorin. If you wish to continue on to Erebor without your burglar, so be it, but Bilbo Baggins shall not be dying on my watch.”

“We need our burglar!” said Kili. While hesitant to anger his uncle, his king, Bilbo was a part of their plan, and – and he was their friend now.

“He’s part of the company,” Bofur put in, face stern.

“Shut up, the lot of you,” snapped Dwalin, smacking Kili on the back of his head before leaning against his war hammer. “It’s Thorin’s decision.”

Thorin felt the gazes of his men and Gandalf upon him and heaved a heavy sigh. While he’d said to Gandalf he’d not be accountable for the hobbit’s life, Bilbo had only gotten injured in order to protect _him_. While he was prideful to a fault, he still had a semblance of honour, even without his kingdom.

He looked down at Bilbo’s pale face and sweating brow, the crimson coating his previously untarnished clothes, and his blade attached firmly to his side, and declared, “We return to Rivendell.”

* * *

 

Bilbo awoke, slightly delirious with fever, to the sight of Elrond leaning over him, concentrated and grim. He parted his lips to speak, but his throat felt scratchy and he could taste only blood. But – but why would Elrond be out here, and why hovering above him instead of Thorin? Granted, he’d been rather cut up, but he it was nothing he couldn’t handle after a bit of rest and some homely cooking.

Ah, but that’s right, he’d not had food from home for a long while now. No warm, freshly baked bread with a glass of brandy, no full couple of cakes to satisfy his sweet tooth. There weren’t warm, soft beds on their journey either – no, it was hard rock and shrill wind and what he hoped were animals howling in the distance.

“Tho…rin…” he forced out, voice hoarse and nearly inaudible, but Elrond glanced at him.

“I suggest you rest, Master Baggins,” suggested the stern Elrond, but his hands were far gentler than his drawn together brows suggested. “You’ve suffered quite the injuries, especially for a Halfling.” He finished whatever task he was performing, and began to wrap gauze around Bilbo’s shoulder. “Thorin, son of Thráin, is quite well. I’m afraid you were in a worse condition than him.”

Bilbo relaxed at the words, sighing in relief and slumping against the pillows. “Finally… some good news…” he muttered, wincing when Elrond tied the bandages together.

“Gandalf informed me of what happened,” he said as he collected together all of his things he needed to tend to Bilbo with. He looked at Bilbo once more, brows raised. “For one so small, you have a stronger will than many men I’ve met.”

He bowed his head to Bilbo once, and then made to depart. Upon opening the door, however, he stepped aside hastily to avoid the dwarves stumbling through. They all regained their balance before falling and rushed to Bilbo’s bedside.

“Don’t crowd him now, come along,” said Gandalf, before resting in a chair beside the bed and smiling soothingly at Bilbo.

“You were very brave, Bilbo. From what I heard, I mean. I didn’t get to see much,” said Ori, giving an awkward little smile.

“Aye, well done, lad,” said Gloin, moving forward to give Bilbo a congratulatory thump on the arm, but was held back by Balin.

“You protected Thorin rather well indeed, Bilbo, my dear fellow,” Gandalf agreed, opting instead to smile instead of raising a hefty fist.

Bilbo smiled back wearily. “Not much of a warrior though,” he murmured, throat still stinging when he spoke or swallowed. He raised a hand to rub at his neck, but dropped it into his lap when Thorin entered the room. His presence just demanded attention, overpowering and brooding as it was. Bilbo fretted for a moment that Thorin would be irked to have to return to Rivendell, and was prepared to defend himself, sore throat or not, because he was only _in_ this condition to help Thorin in the first place, and—

“I believe,” said Gandalf, exhaling heavily as he rose from his chair, “that we should leave these two alone for a moment.” With a cursory comforting smile towards Bilbo, he ushered the dwarves from the room, Dwalin giving Thorin a punch on the arm as he left – softer than usual, Bilbo noticed. As far as dwarves go.

He felt awkward and exposed sitting before Thorin like this, unimpressive chest bare but for bandages, and he fought the urge to hide himself beneath the thin sheet. “Thorin,” he greeted feebly, holding back a husky cough. It would only agitate his throat more.

“Do not speak, Bilbo,” said Thorin, finally hefting himself from the wall to stand at the foot of Bilbo’s bed. He stared at him for a long moment, silent and uncomfortable, and Bilbo fought not to give into his exhaustion in case he seemed rude. “Elrond,” Thorin said, managing not to sneer at the name, even if the tone was rather off, “said you will recover fully within a month.”

Bilbo felt shame and humiliation cascade over him like a storm and swallowed thickly, fiddling with his blanket and pursing his lips. “I – I’m, um, I’m sorry.”

Thorin’s eyebrow rose inquisitively. “For what are you apologising?”

“Delaying you,” he forced out, swallowing again. “Although – erm, you don’t need me, really, so I wouldn’t blame you if you went on without me.” He was beginning to sound awful, but it felt as if there were swords lodged in his throat – and not just his _paperknife_. “I’m no burglar. I’m just a hobbit.”

“A hobbit who saved my life.”

Bilbo looked up, a pleasantly warm feeling encompassing him following Thorin’s words. “Um…”

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, moving around the bed to take up the seat Gandalf had been moments prior. “I know you’re no burglar, nor are you a warrior.” Bilbo looked down at his hands, noticing the bandages on his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. But his eyes jolted back around when a hand grasped his, and he looked at Thorin, surprised and flustered by the sudden display of camaraderie. “But you… you are a part of the company. And you most certainly do have a place amongst us. I’d be honoured if you stayed with us.”

He stilled, astonished by the words, and by Thorin’s painfully earnest expression. “I…” A hobbit left speechless! Whatever next?

“And perhaps now I will have the foresight to think of my companions before launching into battle,” he jested, smiling ever so slightly.

“Foresight earned by hindsight,” said Bilbo, shaking his head. He leaned back again, tired to the bones, but feeling oddly light and warm. “I would… like to be there. To help you when you do fight. If I can.” His eyes slid closed and he finally gave in, body relaxing completely against the bed.

Thorin gave Bilbo’s hand a final squeeze. Perhaps to symbolise their promise, or maybe to reassure himself that the Halfling was all right.

“We shall commence our journey with you by our side, Bilbo Baggins.”


End file.
